


Passenger seat

by gyunikum



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Gen, Implied Relationship, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 19:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10315436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyunikum/pseuds/gyunikum
Summary: Sometimes Wonshik is the driver, sometimes he's forced into the passenger seat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> not the type of fic i wanted to return with, but oh well

Sometimes, Wonshik feels like he’s sitting in the driver’s seat of a car, where the driver is him, the car is his body, and the highway is life itself.

Most of the times, he’s alone.

Sometimes, there’s someone else in the passenger seat.

Sometimes— Wonshik is the one in the passenger seat.

 

He comes to inside the bath tub, naked, skin dry already. The plug is only halfway inside, he’d kicked it, and the water has left through the drain. Water drips from the tap. Somebody cries out. Wonshik is alone in the bathroom. Why is that goddamn tap dripping?

Someone talks. It echoes in the bathroom.

Wonshik is still alone. He screams for help.

He tries to grab the edges of the tub, slippery. Blunt nails scrape against the cold porcelain. He can’t feel his shoulder that he’s been lying on. The bone of his hips on his left side feels like tearing through his skin. He pushes himself, and gravity turns him around, slamming him onto his back.

He cries out. For help.

It echoes.

The wet areas of his skin cool off. Goosebumps. Someone breathes down his neck. A shiver. Wonshik flails his hand in the air to close the tap, but he misses, crushing his fingers against the wall.

Someone is knocking. Not on the bathroom door— inside his head?

Or is it the entrance?

They will go away.

Wonshik knows he shouldn’t look into the mirror at times like this because he knows it’s there. He knows his bloodshot eyes, the dark circles, the wrinkles, the blemishes and pimples, the patchy stubble. He knows the bones sticking out.

It’s there.

It never goes away.

No— it waits. Waits; gives the control to Wonshik for weeks, months on end, and it waits in the background, waits for the perfect opportunity to grab the wheel out of Wonshik’s grasp, and crash their – _his_ – car. It allows Wonshik to have a good time, to enjoy himself. He can laugh, he can meet his friends, he can do a good job, he can be praised.

And then, in an insecure moment, it jerks the wheel away out of Wonshik’s grip. It forces Wonshik into the passenger seat, tightens his seatbelt so that he can’t even move, with words that cut deep into his flesh, and images that burn into his retinas. It covers his eyes with a mask that plays memories Wonshik’s worked hard to forget, flooding to the forefront of his mind in a snap of fingers. Just like that. A week of struggle to forget about something, and they come flooding back. Just like that. It beats him into a bloody pulp. Into the ground, and Wonshik crawls away.

Into a dark corner called _work_.

He locks himself into his studio, and turns the volume up to keep out the screams. Desperately, he tries to fight for control— it’s _his_ goddamn _car_. He’s the _driver_.

It laughs him in the face.

Wonshik claws at his skin, where his tattoos are, growing in numbers after each crash. Protective runes. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they feel warm to the touch, when Wonshik prods around his tender skin in the dead of the night, curled up in one side of his cold leather couch in his empty studio.

The bathroom door is locked from the inside— why’d he lock it?

He stumbles into his room – _his_ own room – just like that, naked, the image of empty bottles tossed into the sink burning into his memory.

His phone is lying on the floor next to his desk, having fallen off. It’s buzzing violently.

Wonshik stares back into the bathroom, across the door, at his reflection in the mirror on the other side.

The person that stares back is not Wonshik.

It reasons behind his withering away, and Wonshik can’t question it because his happiness has blinded him. He spirals out of control, and he goes down that spiral, deeper, into the welcoming arms of it.

He picks up the not-ringing phone, and answers the call to himself. It talks to him in his own voice.

“You are not good enough. They laugh at your work when you turn your back to them. _‘Who does he think he is’_ they think.”

“Your stuff is shit. You will never get better. Stop lying to yourself.”

“Who do you want to convince that you’re capable?”

“You’ll end up like your mother, living off of antidepressants for the rest of your life.”

“They don’t need you.”

“They are better off with you.”

“He’s already cheating on you, behind your back. You’re just too damn busy and blind to notice it.”

The phone lights up with a message, and Wonshik stares at the screen, words blurry and melting into each other.

_‘Are you okay? You sounded off when we talked. Do you want me to go over?’_

“He’s just pretending.”

Wonshik’s fingers hover above the phone.

_‘I’m okay.’_

He sends.

Then.

_‘Not.’_

And then.

_‘I miss you’._

And he gets a message right away.

_‘I’m going there.’_

Wonshik looks up, into the large mirror in his bedroom. Stares at his own body as he sits naked on the edge of his even larger bed, in his empty, soulless bedroom. Salty water cascades, down his face, like cuts in his skin, waterfalls off his shoulders, tears, from his bloodshot eyes.

He watches as he lifts the not-ringing phone to his ear.

“Fuck you. I’m still breathing. And as long as I draw breath, I’m the one in control.”

He straps his passenger to the backseat, and settles into the driver seat as he gets up from the bed to dress up.

 

 


End file.
